


The Shade between Starlight

by Aemileth



Series: Consider Maeglin [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Allusions to future events, Gen, Gondolin, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Mental Instability, Mind entangling, Overstimulation, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aemileth/pseuds/Aemileth
Summary: All is well. Silent are the twinkling stars far above the world. Tears have been spent, but the time for mourning has past. Morning will come again.
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal & Maeglin | Lómion
Series: Consider Maeglin [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598929
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	The Shade between Starlight

The table stretches out before him, covered from end to end in the most exotic and splendid dishes he is sure he has ever seen. Wafts of flavorful and delicious smells swirl in the air, tingling his tongue. Sweet smells, savory smells, spices and herbs, things he has never smelt before. His mouth waters at the sight.

He has never seen this much food. There are many in the palace to feed. Many important people around the King and many, many servants and guards, but who could need this much for one night? 

_This is a feast,_ his mind supplies, recalling a distant conversation with someone _he will never see again._

He tries not to think about that, but memories will bite whenever they can. _How can he forget?_ But he must forget. It is time to move on. 

"No need to be shy, young one," someone says from behind him, in that language he will have to get used to, and Maeglin realizes rather distressingly that he is, in fact, blocking the doorway. There is an awkward line forming behind him, murmuring and whispering in words he tries not to hear and thinking things he cannot keep from feeling.

_They think him strange, his unkempt appearance, his clumsy manners._

The person behind him nudges gently against his back. He fumbles forward gracelessly, nearly tripping in his new boots. They don't fit quite right, but they smell like _sunlight._

The dining hall engulfs him. It looms above and around, enormously spacious and tremendously decorated, even as viewed apart from the long, elegant table that spans the length of the room. Light pours down from intricate lanterns. A dramatic chandelier hangs above the table, casting thousands of tiny reflections across the ebony floors, and kissing the golden frames of the many portraits lining the dazzling marble walls.

It is _perfect._ Maeglin feels like a speck of dust lost among splendor. 

"Please, take a seat, Lómion," a loud, deep voice rings. It is a high and stately voice, spoken _gold and emerald_ , the voice of his Uncle who stands, wrapped in magnificent robes of deep green hues at the head of the table. He is smiling, and his eyes are too bright for Maeglin to read, but his tone is kind and warm and welcoming. 

Everyone else seems to know where to sit. They stand by their majestically engraved seats and stare at Maeglin who doesn’t know and who doesn’t particularly want to move in case he will mess up more than he already has. They look so grand and proper, their heads held high and proud. 

His father was proud too, but he was also stooped from his hours of work, being always bent over his newest project, the candlelight flickering over his stern face and filling every line with gold and then with _blood, bruised flesh, and shattered bone--no, stop!_

Maeglin's face begins to burn; he must be pink now because he's so pale here in the light, but then King nods to his left with a wink and-- _yes._ There is an empty seat by his side and hopefully, an end to further embarrassment. 

He sits, and there are prayers of thanksgiving and salutes to the King and his Daughter and then, unimaginably, to _Maeglin himself_ , or well, to Lómion, actually, but they are one in the same. Then the feasting begins. 

Everything tastes delicious. Maeglin takes mouthful after mouthful. All the while, the flavor melts on his tongue in blissful waves and shocks his senses with bursts of bright, dizzying color.

Through it all, the King speaks to him. He speaks marvelous words of Maeglin's future there in the city and the education he will receive, the people he will meet and the stories he will hear. Every word pricks against his heart until it _throbs_ with what he decides must be excitement. Because he is very happy to be here. _This is a dream come true._ And he is very grateful and feels very loved.

He could almost forget. 

Maybe he _can_ forget. Just for tonight, perhaps. The emptiness will return with the morning's light, but here and now he is full and content.

“And if there is anything in particular that you are interested in pursuing, I will gladly find tutors, the best in the city! Be never afraid to ask. Of course, we will have general studies made available for you immediately,” the King continues, his merry eyes, red-rimmed and sparkling, drifting out of focus, searching beyond Maeglin for someone who isn't there. 

But those are certainly only tricks of the light, and not tears. This is a time of merriment, afterall. _Can the King forget?_

Maeglin attempts one of those beautiful Noldorian smiles. He thinks he might be getting a feel for them finally; he has practiced well enough in the mirror. “I am--I know many--I am well in learning. I have much skill as a smith,” he says, proud of his bold use of _Quenya_ , regardless of how poorly it is spoken _. His mother would be so proud!_ “My--I learned many things from the Naugrim of the Blue Mountains, but I hope to build upon my knowledge.”

Silence bleeds from the King. 

It drips from his face and pours onto Maeglin's plate, sinking into the half-eaten meal upon it. 

Maeglin feels his stomach turn. He laces his hands over it, squeezes and grins. 

_All is well. Silence is golden. Silent are the twinkling stars far above the world._

“Yes, I should have known that you would be,” comes the King’s tremendous voice, though quietly spoken, so terribly abstruse. His eyes flash like a distant flame over a frosty lake, rippling red and wavering orange. His lips stretch thin over his mouth, pale as ice, pale as death.

“The food is very nice,” Maeglin says quickly, wanting dreadfully to push it away. He does not. That would be terribly improper. “Thank you very much.” 

“Of course, Lómion! You are most welcome here, my dear," the King says, beaming brightly. "You have your mother's appetite, you know. She could eat almost anything."

Maeglin smiles. He remembers how much mother liked to eat. He cannot remember if his father ate at all. 

He doesn’t think he can eat any more tonight. 

He wants to say as much. Part of him wants desperately to retreat from this grand hall of the King and from these friendly, whispering people and go to bed. 

_The bed that is so warm but too big for him, in his beautifully decorated room, that is right down the hall from where his Mother once slept on blissful Gondolin nights, dreaming lovely dreams full of wonder and adventure and daring._

His own dreams will come for him, because there are _always_ dreams now. And he has never been good at keeping off their paths, especially now, when it is _so easy_ to follow them. But at least there will be no more colors. His dreams are black and grey. 

It is not that he _isn’t_ happy here. He is very happy here. He isn't ungrateful. Just tired. _Just--_

His eyes start watering before he can stop them. 

The room turns blurry, colors and lights smearing across his vision, murky reflections seen through clouded glass. _Golden, glistening Gondolin in all its festive glory, diluted and tainted._

He swallows once, then twice, and rubs his eyes discreetly. He places his palm against his aching chest, heavy with _something_ suppressed. 

Perhaps the King will not notice. 

But Gondolin’s fair light is too bright to hide in, to blend in, as he used to. And the King's Daughter sits across from him, on his Uncle's right, her pretty blue eyes watching him from under long lashes, her lips curved in a gentle and subtle smile. _How lovely she is! A radiant yellow flower gleaming clear through his clouded surroundings._

Maeglin wants to smile back at her. She has been so kind to him. So kind while his mother _lay dying and bleeding and screaming._ During that night of torment, she had been an anchor of serenity, a bit of warmth from the cold.

The knot twists in his throat. He can only stare back with his black eyes, blinking speechless and lost. 

_He's never noticed how dark they are until coming here. He cannot explain it--his mother's had shined like stars, his father's were gleaming cat eyes, but his are pools of darkness._

The golden-haired Princess tilts her head, her lovely smile disintegrating. She studies his face with her clever gaze. 

_What troubles you?_ her manner asks, _All should be well._

He wants to tell her that he knows. And that he knows it is so very improper of him to cry here in the King's hall, during the King's feast, among the King's subjects. So very disrespectful and ungrateful.

_One should only shed tears when mourning. Not during feasts._

The time for mourning has long passed. And his tears have been spent already. They sank into his cheeks and pulled the flesh tight and left scars down his face.

_His father would be appalled. His father would think him weak, but he would never speak of it. His father hardly spoke. His final words were shrieks of doom._

He bows his head, biting his lip and peering out from behind a dark curtain of hair. _I'm sorry,_ he whispers. He does not know to whom he is speaking. Mother is gone. And Father is dead to him, even in memory. And the Princess deserves far better words than he can manage.

What happens next is something he does not understand. Because the Princess has suddenly taken his hand, her palm so soft against his calloused hand, and they walk through the crowds of blurry faces. They come to a place of silver, gentle silence, a white wooden balcony overlooking a lake of the deepest blue speckled with the kisses of stars from above. It smells like magic and feels like silk against his face.

“You are very cold, cousin-mine,” she says, and he realizes she is holding his hand in both of hers and she is frowning down at his pale fingers. “Are you alright?” 

An ache spirals from the tips of his hand to the depths of his chest, where it bites like ice and stings like frozen air breathed in. 

He does not know what to say, but he keeps his eyes level with hers and tries. “I am tired,” he says and it is the truth.

“You seemed so terribly sad,” the Princess says, searching his face. _There are scars in her eyes, and deeper, far deeper, there is blood against snow and the fear of water under ice._

“I thought you might need some fresh air.” 

He does not tell her that the clean air hurts his lungs. He hasn’t told anyone. _Perhaps he would have told his father. Father would have understood. They are so alike, he and his Father. They are not. Mother said. Mother saw. Mother cannot see anymore._

“Thank you.” He tries to smile, but his lips are quivering.

“Do you think of your mother often?” she asks, and the words are laden with distant heartache. 

“Sometimes,” he says, watching as the moonlight turns her hair dazzling white. 

The Princess sighs and smiles softly. She releases his hand and leans against the balcony railing. “It becomes easier with time, Lómion. And eventually, we move on.” She looks so beautiful and so tragic, her blue dress sparkling and her gentle face resting on her slender hands. 

The evening breeze blows cold and swift against his robes. Maeglin shivers as the chill slinks down his spine. 

And then there is a voice in the wind _, singing and crying, then screaming, then silence and misery._

_A little girl left in the snow, her bare-feet raw and bleeding. A woman under a floor made of ice. Pale and frozen. Blue flesh and dead eyes._

The gasp besides him makes him jump in surprise. 

The Princess is staring at him, her lips parted in an expression of shock, her eyes shining with horror. 

He stares back, eyes wide and heart racing. _He wants to scream. He wants to run._ He bites his tongue and pain flares in his mouth, blood trickles from his lips. 

“ _What did you just do?_ ” she whispers, her voice cracking like footsteps in snow. _Many footsteps walking and walking through snow over an ocean. Where are they all going?_ There are tears running down her cheeks.

He shakes his head, blood pounding in his ears. He cannot speak. He cannot _breathe_.

He blinks, and she stands before him with confidence, a mighty Princess in her palace, powerful and admirable, and _dangerous._

“You saw something I did not show you _,”_ she says, tilting her head, cascades of starlit hair running over her shoulder. “You saw something I never wanted anyone to see.”

Maeglin knows what he is named for, _what his Father named him for._ And yet he has no excuse to offer her, and so he says nothing.

And he stands there for a long while after she has left. He stays there until one of the King’s servants finds him and leads him down the never-ending corridor to his room, where he stands and waits and then climbs into bed. 

The darkness hangs heavy over his head that night, and he thinks he might have wandered down those darkened paths and forgotten, moon-lit trails back to Nan Elmoth, where his tiny life plays back in reverse under a watchful roof of unchanging ageless trees. Because there is something he remembers. Too clearly and too cleanly for memory. And too far away for that which is present. 

His father's eyes within his own, his father's hand beneath his chin, raising it up to keep Maeglin's focus. To trap his gaze.

He wasn't Maeglin then, though.

Just little Lómion, and only that in secret. ‘ _Your father cannot know’, mother said, her warm breath soft against his ear and he, hiding in the blanket of her pitch black hair, peering out into the endless night, out to the red and yellow dancing flames his father had lit to keep them warm, to keep them safe from things that wandered over the snow and under the darkness. ‘You are my little secret.’_

 _"You see something, my son,"_ his father's silky voice intones. There is something like mauve mist around his shoulders, clasping at his throat, a cape draped over his shoulders and running down his back. And within his father's irises there are many violet fears. Turning, twisting, iridescent sea-serpents that lurk in the deep places of wood and water _. "I see only the reflection in your eyes. You see something I never show anyone."_

“What is it?” Maeglin asks the open air, but the ice shatters beneath his aching, bleeding feet and he plunges into the crystal waters roaring below. _But Father did not drown!_ He gasps and the darkness surges up and into his mouth, to fill him up, to satisfy his needs. _You need to breathe! Let us help!_ No, there is no air left to breathe. Mother lay gasping for it, her hands extended in a desperate plea towards the sky, clawing, her fingers tangled in the sheets. _Help me!_

 _I will kill him!_ The King roared, eyes alight with those same dancing flames that are too small to melt snow or ice but flicker and crackle to keep you safe from silence and fuel hatred and anger to keep your blood flowing. _I will--_

_I have to get out!_ Maeglin sobs, silently, heartfully, flailing his arms under water, feeling ice above; a little girl above the ice, screams and bashes a pale fist against an overwhelmingly solid thing. 

He shed no tears when his Father fell, as his words tightened around his neck, stealing his breath for a moment, just a moment, then no longer. _There is a place for hatred, Maeglin. You must use it well. It will stay with you even when all else is taken away,_ his own words, his own red words from his purple mouth. _Are you proud now, Father?_ But the Princess had looked so sad as he walked away from the walls, from the bloodied mess of limbs and flesh and bones that had given him life and shelter, down in the shadows of the City. _Why should I care? He had no love for either of us. Why should I care?_ There were tears enough for Mother. 

_Let me out!_ His fingers burn from the cold, from scraping against the surface. _You will stay here. I want you safe from that damn Curse!_ The girl with the blue eyes is pressed against the ice, watching him, her mouth moving to the rhythm of words unheard. 

He wants to tell her what his Father said, how ridiculous it was. Maybe then someone will tell him the truth for once, and he won’t have to hear it screaming out from their own damn hearts! 

_He said he wanted to save me from a curse, and then he cursed me himself! What a fool! What a monster! You are all cursed here, did you know? I can see that. What happened? Why won’t they tell me? Why do you all hate me so much?_

But will she scream? Will she even care? Do any of them? _What are you doing? What are you doing to me! Get out of my head! Get out of my mind!_ Her very shrieks will break the ice.

And maybe they’ll both fall then, swallowed up in the world under the ice, where his Father and her mother and his Mother and all those who were lost have slowly frozen in the numbness and the darkness below. 

_I want to go home,_ he will say, his head aching, his body broken and bleeding. _Where would that be?_ someone would ask, their smile too wide to be true, their heart too hardened to read. And he won’t be able to answer. 


End file.
